Lord Byron - 3 books to know Juvenalian Satire

To save one half the people then on board.

'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down

Over the waste of waters; like a veil,

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown

Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail,

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,

And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale,

And the dim desolate deep: twelve days had Fear

Been their familiar, and now Death was here.

Some trial had been making at a raft,

With little hope in such a rolling sea,

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,

If any laughter at such times could be,

Unless with people who too much have quaff'd,

And have a kind of wild and horrid glee,

Half epileptical and half hysterical:—

Their preservation would have been a miracle.

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars,

And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,

For yet they strove, although of no great use:

There was no light in heaven but a few stars,

The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,

And, going down head foremost—sunk, in short.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell—

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,

As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave,

Like one who grapples with his enemy,

And strives to strangle him before he die.

And first one universal shriek there rush'd,

Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash

Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,

Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash

Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,

Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry

Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

The boats, as stated, had got off before,

And in them crowded several of the crew;

And yet their present hope was hardly more

Than what it had been, for so strong it blew

There was slight chance of reaching any shore;

And then they were too many, though so few—

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat,

Were counted in them when they got afloat.

All the rest perish'd; near two hundred souls

Had left their bodies; and what 's worse, alas!

When over Catholics the ocean rolls,

They must wait several weeks before a mass

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals,

Because, till people know what 's come to pass,

They won't lay out their money on the dead—

It costs three francs for every mass that 's said.

Juan got into the long-boat, and there

Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place;

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care,

For Juan wore the magisterial face

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair

Of eyes were crying for their owner's case:

Battista; though (a name call'd shortly Tita),

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita.

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save,

But the same cause, conducive to his loss,

Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross,

And so he found a wine-and-watery grave;

They could not rescue him although so close,

Because the sea ran higher every minute,

And for the boat—the crew kept crowding in it.

A small old spaniel,—which had been Don Jose's,

His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think,

For on such things the memory reposes

With tenderness—stood howling on the brink,

Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!),

No doubt, the vessel was about to sink;

And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.

He also stuff'd his money where he could

About his person, and Pedrillo's too,

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would,

Not knowing what himself to say, or do,

As every rising wave his dread renew'd;

But Juan, trusting they might still get through,

And deeming there were remedies for any ill,

Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel.

'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet,

That the sail was becalm'd between the seas,

Though on the wave's high top too much to set,

They dared not take it in for all the breeze:

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet,

And made them bale without a moment's ease,

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd,

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd.

Nine souls more went in her: the long-boat still

Kept above water, with an oar for mast,

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill

Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast:

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill,

And present peril all before surpass'd,

They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter,

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter.

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign

Of the continuance of the gale: to run

Before the sea until it should grow fine,

Was all that for the present could be done:

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine

Were served out to the people, who begun

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags,

And most of them had little clothes but rags.

They counted thirty, crowded in a space

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion;

They did their best to modify their case,

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion,

While t'other half were laid down in their place

At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the tertian

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat,

With nothing but the sky for a great coat.

'T is very certain the desire of life

Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians,

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife,

Survive through very desperate conditions,

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife

Nor shears of Atropos before their visions:

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity,

And makes men miseries miseries of alarming brevity.

'T is said that persons living on annuities

Are longer lived than others,—God knows why,

Unless to plague the grantors,—yet so true it is,

That some, I really think, do never die;

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is,

And that 's their mode of furnishing supply:

In my young days they lent me cash that way,

Which I found very troublesome to pay.

'T is thus with people in an open boat,

They live upon the love of life, and bear

More than can be believed, or even thought,

And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear;

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot,

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there;

She had a curious crew as well as cargo,

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo.

But man is a carnivorous production,

And must have meals, at least one meal a day;

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,

But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;

Although his anatomical construction

Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,

Your labouring people think beyond all question,

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion.

And thus it was with this our hapless crew;

For on the third day there came on a calm,

And though at first their strength it might renew,

And lying on their weariness like balm,

Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm,

And fell all ravenously on their provision,